Dancing With the Devil in the City of God: Rio De Janeiro on the Brink

by Juliana Barbassa

  Brazil scored twice more, sending Cameroon home. But the play itself was unsatisfying, flat. This was a World Cup of surprises, and the Seleção’s performance was one of them. They had been Brazil’s emotional anchor during the uncertainty of the preceding months. Now even as the tournament took off they remained uncoordinated as a team, clumsy, playing some downright ugly futebol. There was little creativity or elegance on the field; their victories had been laborious, even against Cameroon. Neymar kept scoring, but as a team, they were unconvincing.

  There were also signs they were splintering under pressure. None had known the weight of playing a World Cup at home, and this one had dealt them an emotional whiplash from the moment their bus was rocked by angry teachers on strike. They hadn’t brought the Cup to Brazil, but they were tasked with making Brazilians feel this foolhardy gamble was worthwhile. Was it too much to ask?

  The next game, against Chile, widened the team’s emotional cracks.

  It started off well enough. Following another overwrought rendition of the national anthem, the team held their nerve and kept the game balanced for the regulation ninety minutes. The extra time was grueling, down to a last Chilean shot in the 120th minute that slammed off the crossbar, just inches away from knocking Brazil out. The players were quivering with exhaustion, but the game was tied at 1–1. It would go to penalty kicks.

  As Brazilian goalie Júlio César prepared to take his place, he broke into tears. When he pulled himself together, it was the captain’s turn to fall apart. Thiago Silva walked over to the coach and asked to be the last one to take a penalty. Then he turned his back to his mates, sat on the ball, bowed his head, and closed himself off—in prayer, in fear, or in denial. No one knew and it didn’t matter. He broke down right when he had to come through for the team, and the team had to come through for Brazil.

  As each man lined up to take his shot, apprehension played across his face.

  David Luiz goes first, focused and furious, and knocks it in: 1–0. Chile misses. The Brazilian Willian is up; he misses and collapses sobbing on the grass. Chile shoots and misses again. Still 1–0.

  Next is Marcelo, who redeems his own goal against Croatia: 2–0. Chile takes another turn, and it’s a goal: 2–1. A Brazilian miss and one more Chilean goal tie the game again: 2–2.

  Neymar is up. His face is taught. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, breaks into a loping run. Within feet of the ball he drops into a short, choppy shuffle. The sudden shift in stride and pace is disconcerting, but it works: 3–2.

  Chile’s turn. The stands heave. Fans chant goalie Júlio César’s name. It’s in his hands. But no . . . Their last penalty kick thunders off the crossbar.

  Brazil won, but not without a glimpse of the abyss. The scenes that followed said far more about the state of the Seleção than the score. Game over, Neymar flung himself facedown on the ground, crying openly. Thiago Silva dropped to his knees, sobbing with the abandon of a child into the coach’s arms. Team members crumpled into themselves or leaned on each other in a collective breakdown. These were not a few tears of mawkish patriotism; the men were unnerved, and dangerously so.

  The penalty kick drama set off a mad chatter, with critics questioning everything from the Seleção’s aptitude to their manhood. As if to prove them wrong, Brazil barreled into their next opponent, Colombia. It would be the most violent game of the Cup.

  Colombia had been the leader in fouls; by the end of the match, Brazil would take that dubious title, having chopped into their opponents 31 times to Colombia’s 23. The team was chasing the win at any cost—including a second yellow card for Thiago Silva, which suspended him for the next match.

  I was watching this one with a group of foreign friends. I can’t remember who first said it: “Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  When it happened, it looked like just another tumble in a rough game: a Colombian player going for a high ball leaped up behind Neymar. As he came down, his knee went into the Brazilian’s back. Neymar is a diver, known for going down at any chance. But this wasn’t a calculated fall. Brazil’s forward writhed on the grass, his limbs splayed at awkward angles, his mouth an O of agony. He’d fractured a vertebra.

  Brazil beat Colombia, but it was a victory that left the country in mourning. The twenty-two-year-old had carried the nation’s hopes with grace and a measure of composure. He was Brazil’s top scorer, but he was more than good. As the Seleção struggled to victory, Neymar alone had flashed the old futebol arte. When he was carried out on a stretcher, he took that with him.

  The bruiser with Colombia left two games between the home team and the trophy. Brazilians approached the semifinal with Germany much like a tightrope walker who keeps the balance by refusing to look down. Allow doubt to creep in, take a quick peek, and the illusion of being on firm ground is gone.

  Maintaining this sort of magical thinking on a national scale required blind faith and confidence that with a little jeitinho, anything could be negotiated. In these categories, Brazil is gifted. This is a spiritual, superstitious country of many faiths, where the heavens have always been open for business: Catholic saints deal in promises and Afro-Brazilian gods take offers in the form of fruit bowls, flowers, candles, or the bloodier tributes left at crossroads. Even the severe Protestant God, who is making inroads and runs a strict monopoly, is receptive to prayer.

  As the semifinal approached, questioning the team’s chances or criticizing their performance was treated as sacrilegious and un-Brazilian, as if by voicing uncertainty, you were disrupting this web of belief and allowing the unthinkable to pass from the realm of possibilities into reality.

  Walking to my sister’s house to watch the game, I looked up at the familiar profile of Cristo perched on the granite peak that rises behind her building. Was it confidence in his charges or indifference to their fate that gave this ever-present Carioca his serenity?

  The building’s doorman was already gathered with other porteiros around a TV set up in a security guard’s cabin, but he went with me to the front gate, unlocked it, and pressed the button for the elevator.

  “So what do you think? Can we do it without Neymar?” I asked as we waited.

  “We are two hundred million. We can make it if we all do our part,” he said, earnest as a doorknob.

  Right.

  Up in the apartment, my sister’s family was already arranged in front of the television. Her three kids romped about, the twins in matching yellow jerseys, oblivious to the strain we all felt. Goalie Júlio César and David Luiz held up Neymar’s jersey like a sacred relic while they sang the anthem.

  “This is too much, no? The man’s not dead,” someone said.

  The team had been on a high-gear emotional feedback loop for weeks. With Neymar gone, they’d reached a frenzied pitch that brought to mind Léo Rabello’s description of the Maracanã before that long-ago final. The players, the public, the commentators were all in the grip of that same blinkered obsession. This was our Cup, the “Copa das Copas”; only one outcome was possible.

  Kickoff. Brazil opened up with drive, but without much composure. Germany was flexible and well articulated, falling in and out of formation with speed and precision. Within ten minutes they scored. Minutes later, they scored again: 2–0. Everyone fell silent—the public in the stadium, my siblings in the living room. The toddlers looked up at the adults, aware of the sudden shift in tone.

  Brazil could come back. There was still time. But with that second goal, the Seleção snapped, like a machine wound too tight. They went from functioning as a team to being elven terrified individuals stranded on the field, disconnected and alone in their fear.

  The Germans tore into them, thrusting three fast goals into the net: one minute, two minutes, score; three minutes, four minutes, score; five minutes, score: 5–0.

  My sister, down on the floor with the kids, turned to me, eyebrows flying high: “What? What
was that? Was that a replay? Did that count?”

  It counted. All of it. Just like that, the World Cup was over for Brazil: the agony of the wait, the fears and aspirations the nation had wrapped up in this Cup, our Copa. Finished. On the screen, the faces of fans flipped from confusion to shock to heartbreak. The camera closed in on a boy who wept alongside his father. Brazilians still dressed in cheery yellow got up and stumbled out of the stadium.

  In my sister’s house, two people left the living room and took refuge in the back of the house. If this were boxing, such pounding would have brought the match to an end: knockout, its over. But this was soccer. Brazil had to limp back out after halftime for another excruciating forty-five minutes.

  As the pummeling continued, we began to revel in its absurdity. All the buildup, the chest-thumping, the billions spent on most expensive World Cup ever, for this? Brazil took another goal: 6–0. The humor that surfaced when we had nothing else came through. In the stands, desolate Brazilians began to cheer again—for Germany. In my sister’s living room, we went from disbelief to the complete release of expectations.

  The adults laughed nervously, unsure what to make of this. The twins playing underfoot looked up at the adults and giggled. In the stadium, too, fans gave in to the slapstick on display, raising a chorus of “olés” for each German pass around the hapless home team, who managed to squeeze in one goal before close: 7–1. Sete a um.

  By the end we were disoriented and a little sick, like kids who’d been blindfolded and spun in circles. All our assumptions had been turned inside out: Brazil had pulled off the organization and the infrastructure for the World Cup, but our Seleção was an unmitigated disaster. A less spectacular defeat would have given us something to cling to, someone to blame, a way forward. This one wiped us clean.

  Each of the players knew this. David Luiz spoke for them as he walked off the field.

  “I’m sorry, everyone,” he said, sobbing between words. “I just wanted to give my people something to be happy about.”

  Even for the Germans there was little joy in seeing the Seleção in tatters. Their celebration was muted and their after-game interviews bordered on contrite.

  We sat and watched dumbfounded as each of the players and coaches came forward; we were hoping someone, somehow could explain what happened.

  A defeat of this magnitude went beyond the game. It buried that most resilient of myths, of Brazil as the spiritual home of futebol and the Seleção as its finest incarnation. The country still exported more players than any other, but we were no longer the masters of the jogo bonito. The domestic league had suffered decades of corrupt, inept management, dire levels of play, and dwindling stadium attendance. Brazilians nostalgic for futebol arte at home made do by spinning stories from the past and looking for the old touch in players like Neymar. Brazil still had a huge talent pool, but playing at the highest level now also required training, strategy, professionalism, and funding. The 7–1 laid that bare.

  The team had one more match, a sad, unnecessary coda in which the Netherlands beat them in a dispute for third place. It didn’t matter. We’d lost all that mattered with that 7–1: the game, the Cup, our favorite fantasy. There would be no vindication of the 1950 loss; the Maracanã would host a final between Germany and Argentina.

  The defeat also forced Brazil to face reality beyond the pitch without the comforting mantle of victory.

  When talking futebol with Léo Rabello, I’d asked whether he was looking forward to a World Cup win in the Maracanã, something to ease the sting of that first, traumatic loss. He considered the question quietly for a few beats, hands clasped, arms extended toward me over the meticulous desk. His open laptop whirred.

  “It would do great things for the business of soccer,” he said. “For the people, it would be a beautiful moment that passes and leaves nothing. So, do I want Brazil to win? Yes. But more than that, I want soccer to stop being an excuse to sweep problems under the rug.”

  After the disaster of the semifinal, I thought back to what Léo had said. We’d produced a heart-stopping World Cup, there were no major disasters, and the festivities were fabulous. Despite the cost overruns and the delays, Brazil emerged with its reputation intact. If the country had also won the Cup, euphoria would have carried the day.

  Instead, we got the 7–1, a defeat that didn’t just lift the proverbial rug; it ripped it right off and exposed the gap between Brazil’s aspirations and its ability to achieve them, on the field and beyond. The road to the World Cup had been littered with waste and squandered opportunities. We’d spent $11.6 billion—more than any other nation, more than Germany and South Africa combined. What did we get for it? Was it worth it? There would be no refuge from these questions in futebol.

  In Rio, several projects that could have positively transformed the city had exacerbated economic and social inequalities. Their implementation raised questions about the tenor of our democracy and the society we were building. As with the sad state of domestic soccer, this had been unfolding for years. This monumental loss brought it back into focus.

  At my sister’s house, the party was also over. After the postgame interviews we had little to do but go home and digest those seven German goals. After the emotional upheaval of the past few hours, fear of renewed riots and demonstrations were not far-fetched. We said good-bye, went home, and stayed home, unsure what the night would bring. Commentators and journalists speculated.

  The night went by quietly. The next day, Cariocas picked up their paper, with its tiered, all-caps headline—SHAME, EMBARRASSMENT, HUMILIATION—stacked above a portrait of David Luiz on his knees, face buried in the grass. And they went to work. They slipped on their pumps, their work boots, their Havaianas; they boarded buses, walked into classrooms, boardrooms, factories; they turned on their computers, their taxis, their stoves, and went back to the business of everyday life.

  We, Brazilians, had lost the game, the Cup, and our illusions. What did that leave us? Well, everything else.

  For generations, we had had propped up our national image on that old tripod, samba-soccer-Carnaval. The central of those three pillars was gone, but perhaps it was time. We’d outgrown the old stereotypes. The 7–1 forced us to see it, for better or for worse, and to move on.

  Most Brazilians remember only David Luiz’s heartbroken apology, but the interview didn’t end there. The team may have failed, he said, but there was strength in the way Brazilians came together.

  “I hope fans, the people, use this, the Seleção, this closeness, to go after other things in life, not just those related to soccer,” he said.

  The protests of 2013 showed the population had heightened expectations of their country. It was time to take up the questions they had raised. Brazil had state and national elections in three months. Rio would host the Olympic Games within two years. It was time to take up the discussion over governance, housing, transportation, security, health care, and education—to define the country we wanted, and outline our terms. Who were we, when we were no longer the país do futebol? What were our limits and our ambitions?

  Brazilians had a lot of work ahead. The economy was faltering, the Seleção had crumbled, and Cristo remained as impassive as ever. There would be no miraculous rescue, not through Lula or Neymar, not through saints, side deals, or even our infamous jeitinho.

  But that’s okay. Brazilians are, above all, resilient. They get to work and save themselves. They’re doing it now—slowly, daily. Saving themselves.

  The author and her brother as toddlers on Ipanema Beach with an uncle and his girlfriend. The Dois Irmãos Peaks—the Two Brothers—loom in the background. Personal archive

  The author with her father, uncle, and younger brother during her first visit to Cristo, the statue of Christ the Redeemer that looms over Rio. Personal archive

  The author as a child playing outside her home with a shepherd’s daughters i
n Basra, Iraq. Personal archive

  Brazil’s then-president, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, on a visit to a Petrobras offshore ship platform, shows hands covered in pre-salt oil from the Tupi field off the coast of Rio de Janeiro on Thursday, October 28, 2010. © AP Photo/Felipe Dana

  Rio de Janeiro Mayor Eduardo Paes, left, businessman Eike Batista, center, and Rio de Janeiro Governor Sergio Cabral attend a ceremony in which Batista donated R$ 10,000,000 (around 4.5 million US dollars) to bolster Rio’s 2016 Olympic bid on April 7, 2009. © AP Photo/Ricardo Moraes

  Brazil’s Lula is emotionally overwhelmed in Copenhagen on October 2, 2009, after hearing that Rio de Janeiro beat Chicago, Madrid, and Tokyo and won the bid to host the 2016 Summer Olympic Games. Note the missing pinky finger on his hand. © AP Photo/Claus Bjørn Larsen, Polfoto

  Cariocas celebrate on Copacabana Beach after Rio de Janeiro won the nomination to host the 2016 Olympic Games—the first South American city to do so. © AP Photo/Silvia Izquierdo

  Sunbathers gather on Ipanema Beach in Rio de Janeiro during a hot September day in 2012. Rio boasts some of the world’s most stunning urban beaches. © AP Photo/Felipe Dana

  A vendor sells iced mate tea in one tank and lemonade in another on Ipanema Beach, on Saturday, February 2, 2013. © Lianne Milton/Lianne Milton Photography

  A boy reacts with fear as firefighters work on a bus set on fire on Thursday November 25, 2010. During many weeks that year gang members erected roadblocks on major highways, torched dozens of cars and buses, and shot up police outposts, all to protest against a security program that threatened their hold on favelas where they would have held sway for decades. © AP Photo/Silvia Izquierdo